


Ghosts in the Halls

by faith_girl222 (faithgirl)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Kid Fic, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-01
Updated: 2004-05-01
Packaged: 2018-04-05 08:33:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4173057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithgirl/pseuds/faith_girl222
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three things that might have happened to Rupert Giles; a beginning, an end, a middle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts in the Halls

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Tales of the Vampires, #5. 
> 
> Beta by eleniangel.

one

When Rupert was five his mother fell down the stairs. It was really quite spectacular, all things taken into account. Like a perfectly choreographed line of events. His father's washing in a basket at the top of the stairs and an urgent phone call about being in Singapore longer than planned and suddenly his mum was turning and the phone was slipping from her hand and a rain of blood-stained and torn shirts obscured his vision. The thump-thump-thud of her tumbling toward the foyer bellow, a startled yell as her world turn upside down, righted itself only to turn again. She wasn't badly hurt, a few broken bones, nothing Rupert hadn't received at the hands of grammar school bullies, but the memory stays with him, the thump-thump-thud a sickening reminder there will always be something that keeps you from seeing the things that matter, helping the people who mean the most.

It's something Rupert reflects on more and more these days. And they are dark days, uncountable in number. Once upon a time his hours were defined by calendars and lessons, classes and schedules that had no space for change or compromise. And now he is in a limbo, a waiting room before the judge calls him and they must face what they've done.

Randall. Poor, ambition-riddled Randall. It seems almost wrong it was he, of all of them. Strong and smart, with magic several generations deep, and yet Eyghon had taken him easily. In later years Rupert will look back on it as proof breeding matters little, and one's own mettle can only be proved by one's own actions. But now it gives him pause. If Eyghon were ever to return none of them would stand a chance against it.

Ethan sits at the window, peering into the London sunrise. Always full of exuberance and hair-brained schemes, he is quiet as he tries to formulate a plan to get them out of this jam. Dark hair falls into his eyes as he turns his head, the bright sunlight slanting through his hair, creeping into the dark room. Rupert fights the feelings, the ever-present tide of emotion, which seems to care little for the dreadful circumstances.

Ethan sighs, leans back, long piano-player fingers toying with the frayed curtain. Rupert stares into his tea, hating himself for falling to distraction when a comrade needs competent people planning his exorcism.

He is beside Rupert before he notices anything, the clouds of milk swirling in the cup.

"Rupe, come see, the sky looks like someone set fire to it." Rupert can't help but think he sounds too happy; bloody sunrises are meant to be bad omens.

He follows the other man over, and the floorboards creek. This is not a good part of London, but it affords a good view. Ethan is right. The sun lingers at the horizon its blinding rays turning the clouds crimson. Blood. Life. Vampires. He is not meant to be here. He is meant to be Watcher. The world he was destined for seems distant, a faded memory. The first act of a play that takes off in another direction all together. You get back to the beginning and still expect the same outcome you did the first time.

A chill rises on his arms.

"Do we have a plan yet?"

They turn, but they both knew it was Diedre before they looked. Her smile is tight, auburn hair pulled back. There are rings around her eyes, and Rupert imagines he doesn't look much different. Ethan moves away, eyes avoiding Rupert. The sun hits Diedre, and she looks old. They're all old now. They've made themselves old.

two

The old church was dark, and full of dead air. It nearly chocked him as he moved further and further into it. Candlelight illuminated his destination. Her hair was lit up, like a golden halo around her head. Water splashed beneath his feet.

Buffy didn't move as he hurtled toward her, but the laws of space seemed to bend and it felt an eternity before he was kneeling beside her, pulling her from the pool. Her skin was cold, her lips tinged blue. Fear clutched him, and he recited the steps of CPR to himself. His forehead pounded, her fist mark rising in pink and blue bruising.

Giles pulled her over his lap, and carefully breathed into her mouth, willing life back into her. He pressed against her chest, one, twice, three times. Nothing happened. He did it again slower. Then faster. Still nothing. Hysteria was engulfing him. Desperation poured from his mouth to hers as he tried again and again.

He had no memories between the 8th time he tried and the wetness of Joyce's tears on his tweed vest. "She kept asking me to take her away. I didn't listen. How could I have not listened?"

Everyone said it looked like suicide, and shook their heads sympathetically when Giles asked how you bite and drown yourself. He was put on leave, due to "personal stress" Snyder said, but Giles saw the detective following him home every night.

He went to Joyce's house every morning, where they drank together. He made her call Hank; said a father had a right to know when his daughter is gone. She'd laugh hollowly then, and he'd remember the sound of Buffy's voice, cracking under the weight of dread. Of death, inescapable, destined death.

The funeral was awful, in ways Giles never thought anything could be. Hank tried to comfort Joyce, and she slapped him.

"If you had been a better father this would never have happened." She said the words to Hank but they seemed meant for him, and they stung.

Xander could barely hold himself up, and had all Willow's weight to bear. Cordelia came, mascara smudgy under a heavy veil, meant more to hide her from prying eyes than compliment her mourning ensemble. And Angel went home singed, because the ceremony was in daylight but there was no way he could not come.

Jenny stayed at the back, and followed him to his flat after the wake. He doesn't remember what they did there. In the morning there was a letter from the Council on his doorstep.

They said Mr. Zabuto's Slayer had been called and they wanted a full report on the demise of the previous one. He ripped the page out of the Codex and mailed it to them with his letter of resignation.

In the end it was decided Sunnydale had had a brush with a serial murderer, and the person responsible for 8 deaths within the school was Buffy's murderer. And like so many things in Sunnydale it was readily accepted and then mostly forgotten. Except by those who already knew the truth. 

Giles didn't give up his position as librarian, but it never inhibited him from rotting away, drinking himself into delirium.

It wasn't like he expected to prove his worth anymore.

three

Giles liked Sundays. He never had to go to the library on Sundays. He could sleep in on Sundays. They were warm cotton bed sheets and pancakes and the smell of freshly mowed lawn. Jenny liked Sundays too, and he trusted a great many other people do as well, but mostly he cared that Jenny enjoyed them so much.

Cared for them enough not to get up at six for yoga, but stay in bed all morning in a manner she once described as "perfectly embodying the phrase 'lazy bones'." She was warm and solid and smelled like the seashore. Three months into their relationship he had to revise his opinion on the lack of odor a computer had; or perhaps it was only Jenny's computers that smelled that way. He'd never been particularly interested in finding out.

"What are we going to do today?"

"There's a carnival market thing in Docktown; Buffy said she'd be there."

"Yes, but what are we going to do today?"

A pillow met him squarely in the face. "Why, make passionate love in the middle of the MiniGolf cafeteria of course."

Five years, and that sort of thing still made him splutter.

"Kidding, English. But I do love the look on your face."

He kissed her shoulder and she giggled, eyes falling shut as he moved up to her face and peppered it with butterfly kisses. Giles' wedding band flashed in the sunlight as ran his fingers through her hair. Her hand, with a matching ring adorning it, guided his hand to her belly, where he could feel the soft rise of their child. It wasn't big enough to kick, but he imagined he could feel the life thrumming there. The wind up for the kick that would greet him one of these mornings

Jenny leaned forward and placed a kiss on the end of his nose. "Fuddy duddy."

She kissed his cheek.

"Scarlet woman."

His kisses nipped around the collar of her night t-shirt.

"Troglodyte." 

A kiss behind his ear.

"Heathen." 

A crash sounded downstairs, cutting him in the middle of unbuttoning her shirt.

"Jeffery."

Giggles accompanied the destruction up the stairs followed by the elephantine sound of 4-year-old feet on wooden stairs. Giles smiled at his wife, who was perfecting the art of fake sleeping.

He climbed out of bed. The doorknob was already rattling, and the laughter on the other side made missing his Sunday of peace and quiet worth it.


End file.
